


For the North

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Oral Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Queen in the North shall take whatever lovers she wishes, shall bear as much fruit as she can, and no man shall claim her children, for the North is the only father they need.</p><p>(Jaime interrupts Sansa as she attempts a wildling fertility ritual.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the North

Although her Lord and Lady Commanders frequently protest the decision, the Queen in the North refuses to allow guards at her bedroom door.  There’s no need, she insists; the walls of Winterfell are more secure than they’ve ever been, the alliance with the wildlings is proceeding beautifully, and she cannot think of a single person within her household who thirsts for her blood.  
  
(And even if she could, she keeps a dagger under her pillow, and she’s learned well enough how to use it.)  
  
No, she has no use for such protection....but when her door swings open suddenly, revealing her in a most peculiar position, Sansa begins to reconsider her stance on the matter.  
  
“A knock might have been a courteous gesture,” she huffs in response to the surprised snort of laughter, followed by a swift closing of the door.  And indeed, she makes quite the spectacle:  naked as her name day (save a pair of rose-and-elderberry garlands slung over her neck and hips), bent backwards over her bed until her head nearly touches the ground, a slick combination of oils slathered over her belly and between her legs.  
  
From her inverted position, she sees only a pair of boots stepping toward her and the glint of a silver breastplate.  But she would recognize his presence even if she were blind, and he speaks soon enough, anyway.  He never can stay quiet for long.  
  
“What in the seven hells are you doing?”  
  
“It’s...a fertility ritual...”  He’s thrown off her breathing pattern completely, and she tries to resume the deep, measured breaths that she’s been told are crucial to the process.  “...one of the wildling women....told me about it....”  
  
The blood rushes to her head, and she closes her eyes at the sudden press of tension at her temples.  She’s already dizzy from the pungent scent of the oils-  _deep breaths, deep breaths._  
  
Jaime’s sardonic drawl sounds very far away- garbled even, as though he’s speaking with his head underwater.  “Interesting, that an unmarried queen should be so determined to bear a child.”  
  
Her exhale is so sudden and forceful that it propels her farther down until the crown of her head almost collides with the flagstones.  They’ve had this conversation before, and it never ceases to exasperate her.  The rules are different here in her fierce, savage Northern kingdom; the wildlings care nothing for the exchanging of cloaks or words mumbled in a sept (or even in a godswood).  The Queen in the North shall take whatever lovers she wishes, shall bear as much fruit as she can, and no man shall claim her children, for the North is the only father they need.    
  
But any attempts on her part to explain this to Jaime have only ended in sniping jokes and tangible discomfort, so she only says, “It’s another world up here.”  
  
“Aye, that it is.”   
  
She keeps her eyes closed, but she can hear him moving around the front of the bed, can feel the mattress sinking beneath his weight when he positions himself by her feet.  
  
His fingers barely skim over her ankles, and she shivers.  Jaime seems to interpret that as an invitation to move forward- she feels the chill of his breastplate against her calves as he purrs into the skin of her inner thigh:  
  
“I don’t mean to question wildling wisdom-” he licks into the crease between her hip and her groin, and she bites down hard on her lip- “but as far as I can tell-” he moves the garland out of the way to place a kiss just above her mound- “there’s only one way to get a child in your belly.”    
  
She cries out when his tongue enters her, palms flat on the floor as she tries to push herself up.  There’s no hope of resuming her breathing rhythm, not with his beard scratching at her thighs, his lips closing over her pleasure spot- her arms tremble with the exertion of keeping her head away from the floor, and she can barely summon the vocal strength to whisper-  
  
“Jaime...not yet...the ritual...”  
  
“Fuck the ritual.”  His mouth causes a pleasant buzz against her sex as he speaks, and she can feel her climax approaching-  
  
Her elbows buckle, and she whimpers, “I’m going to fall, Jaime...”  
  
At once, the press of skin and metal on either side of her hips, and he hoists her up, shifting his body back and keeping his face buried in her cunt.  She twists the flower garlands around her hands and moans her release, the stinging in her arm muscles only adding to the pleasure.  
  
Jaime lifts his golden head and runs his tongue over his lips, brows furrowed in a quizzical expression.  “What is this?”  
  
“Oil of juniper...and witch hazel...and willow herb...” She fights to catch her breath, and he laughs.  
  
“You’ve got more potions on you than an embalmed corpse.”  He leans over to kiss up and down her belly, his lips shining when he pulls away.  “The taste isn’t entirely objectionable, though.  I think I could grow used to it.”    
  
He reaches for the laces of his breeches, but she stills his hand, nearly giggling at the frustrated impatience in his green eyes.  “Breastplate off first,” she instructs, “along with any other metal you’re wearing.  It’s unlucky...supposed to drain energy from the womb....”  
  
She frowns at his wide grin of amusement, but is relieved to see him reach for the buckles of the breastplate.  Sansa helps him along, stripping layer after layer until he’s as naked as she, except-  
  
“The golden hand, too,” she says in a cautious whisper.  He freezes, hesitation in every muscle, and she rises up on her knees, stroking her fingers over his face and bestowing kiss after gentle kiss on his mouth.    
  
“Please?”    
  
He finally complies, and she immediately cups the handless wrist in her palm, the surprising smoothness pleasant to the touch.  Jaime deepens the kiss as he lowers her down; her head barely hangs off of the side of the bed, brilliant red hair tumbling down, long enough to sweep the floor.    
  
He fills her, and she holds fast to the stump, her legs tight around him, the flowers tangling in their limbs and in her hair.  The oils bring an ease to his thrusts, and as she pushes her hips up into him, she uses her other hand to fist his fair hair and drag his mouth down to her throat.   
  
Her voice box vibrates beneath his lips when she pants, “Give me a child, Lord Commander.  Give me a child...”  
  
“My queen,” he whispers, nipping the thin flesh below her chin.    
  
“Your queen...needs an heir..”  He thrusts harder and faster, and her nails dig into the handless arm, hard enough to cause pain if the nerves were not dead.  “Give me an heir.”  
  
He begins to say something- a sibilant syllable escapes his lips- but then he stops.  She thinks she knows why- it hurts, it will always hurt, but she can’t let it linger, not when she has a duty to her people, to-  
  
“The North,” she murmurs, too quietly for him to hear.  The friction of his lower stomach against her clit nearly brings her to her peak, but she holds it back, waiting until she feels the heat of his seed within her, coating her womb, filling her with hope, the promise of a future.  
  
He guides her up until her head rests against the pillows, and they lie together, sweat-dampened and spent.    
  
“So the Queen in the North may take any man she likes into her bed, husband or no?”  The fingers of his left hand trace soft circles over her breast, and she can feel him smiling against the skin below her ear when she nods.  
  
“And the children she bears...”  
  
“...belong only to her.  Well, to her and to the North.  The North is their sire, and no man can claim them.”  
  
She’s said this before, again and again and again, and she turns her face away from him before he can lift his head.  For in spite of his japes, the words land in his eyes every time, and that strange shadow of sadness...  
  
 _He cannot have for his own what belongs to the North._

_  
_


End file.
